


Self Destructive Tendencies (unrestrained parenthetical commentary

by azureavian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Self-Destructive Tendencies, unrestrained paranthetical commentary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 16:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4067329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azureavian/pseuds/azureavian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft worries about Sherlock but, short of locking him away, can't do much to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My Sherlock mind voice is being a right bitch, but as that's kind of the point of this one, I'm gonna say it means I'm doing it right. This one fighting me tooth and nail, it might post slow. Enjoy!
> 
> Rape/Dub con and violence warnings (for now at least) are for things happening mostly off screen.

Chapter1

His thoughts rolled and flashed in time with the lights on the stage. The lewd, pounding music barely drowned out the panic and worry in his mind (he let nothing show on his face). He stood out of the way, in one of the (many) shadowy corners, looking in turn at the clientele, the performers, and the grimy seating and tables (he would not sit; no telling what unsanitary effluvium may be on those surfaces and he’d neglected to add a black light to his evening’s accoutrements).

This club catered to tastes somewhat more exotic than the norm (whatever normal _really_ meant in this instance), with an emphasis in transvestites. The last dancer trolled the audience, her (?) snake wrapped around her like a fashion accessory (un-feathered boa, hah!).

 The current dancer on stage was a delicate beauty. Pale skin, long gypsy curls, very thin but finely muscled (a dancer’s body). Long legs and arms, dusted only lightly with hair, face made up with a minimum amount of makeup (surprisingly effective toward highlighting sharp and undeniably un-feminine features without looking exactly unfeminine). Towering platform heels on otherwise bare feet sparkled and flashed as they wrapped around the pole on stage. The dancer’s (hesitate to call it outfit, there was barely enough of it) costume seemed to consist of a corset that didn’t really serve a non-decorative purpose, a pair of (good Lord!) thong (can’t call them under, when they don’t go under anything) pants, and several artfully placed (perhaps glued to his skin?) scarves and filmy wisps of fluff.

At the culmination of the performance, the crowd (thick for this time of day and undeniably coarse) was loudly and vocally appreciative. Apparently this dancer was a well-known favorite (there were times Mycroft wished desperately against the impossibility to forget things he has seen; Sherlock was the cause of the majority of those times).

Backstage (frightfully lax in security, _anyone_ could get back here), Mycroft attempted once again to coax his brother to come home.

“No,” the word was sing-song and Sherlock’s pupils even more dilated than could be accounted for by the sparse light backstage.

“No,” the second was the long drawn out response of someone talking to a small dog.

“No,” now Sherlock was getting angry.

“Mycroft, you do not control me, only I control me. I will not be moving back to the mausoleum you call home, nor will I return to the fair bosom of the family seat…can seats have bosoms? Can arse-cheeks be bosoms as well?” Mycroft could only argue fruitlessly (there was no leverage to be had when all Sherlock wanted was nothingness).

He mentioned the drugs, “They make me happy, Mycroft, do you remember happy? They make the buzzing stop in my head. I’m still bored, but I. Don’t. Caaaaaaare!”

He questioned the costume and the garishness of the stage, “Everything everyone ever wears is a costume, brother, and all of life is a façade.”

He deplored the class of people to frequent the establishment, “At least when they appreciate my talents,” (fluttering of the eyelashes, toss of the hair, a boneless roll of the shoulder, very European, very sexy, very _wrong_ ) “I know that they are really appreciative and not just smiling politely for the trained poodle. Isn’t that what they called me, your friends, a trained dog? What were the words? A ‘curly-haired he-bitch worming his way under your hand for any stroke you’d give me’?” and that look on his brother’s face, aimed at him. That was wrong, on so many disturbing levels. How Mycroft wished he’d never allowed his classmates so much as a glance into his family’s life.  He would apologize again if he thought Sherlock would believe him.

It really was too much when Sherlock’s dealer (oh good Lord, and pimp??) came up, bold as you please, to exchange this night’s wages for an unassuming paper bag (drugs, slips of paper with phone numbers, hotel room keys). Mycroft would snatch them and throw them down and stomp all over them if he were the kind of man to throw tantrums, if he were the kind of man given to fits of rage. All of his rage was held in a maelstrom in his mind, he must find a way to use his rage. His brother’s life, his beautiful mind, would _not_ be snuffed out like he didn’t even matter, not even if he didn’t matter to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft worries about Sherlock but, short of locking him away, can't do much to save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is subjecting to editing.

How Sherlock had gotten a detective to let him know enough details of a case (cold or not), Mycroft would never know. The parties themselves weren’t talking; the detective himself seemed astonished and not quite sure how it happened. But his brilliant brother seemed to have quite the knack of solving the unsolvable. Too bad his people skills weren’t stronger; they might give him cases more current, more challenging.

But with brilliance and challenge, there would always be someone wanting to snuff it out and all the convincing arguments and reasonable debates in the world would not move Sherlock Holmes to act in a way contrary to his desires. He had to have a compelling reason of his own.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft worries about Sherlock but, short of locking him away, can't do much to save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is subject to editing.

The Holmes boys had always put their brains before anything else and Sherlock’s ending up in a gutter, beaten and bloody and broken was more compelling than any other reason in the world; the brain is a much more delicate device than the body, is damaged more easily and heals with more difficulty.

Mycroft sat in an uncomfortable chair and looked at his brother in the pale backlight of the midnight shift in the best (quietest, most private) hospital ward he could find. If there was no brain damage from the savage assault Sherlock had received it would be a miracle. There had been swelling on the brain and bones sticking out from his skin. The doctors had done their job to the best of their (well paid) abilities. There was only the waiting left to do. He didn’t even have energy left over after his worry to move anymore.

Mycroft wouldn’t even have known of the assault if he hadn’t been keeping tabs on Sherlock by CCTV. Prickling chills still chased themselves uncomfortably down his spine at the sheer luck involved in someone seeing (and recognizing) the mass of blood and bone on the right monitor at the right time. The crime itself had been carried out by persons unknown, off camera and the rain had blurred away any proof, including descriptions or identifying marks of the vehicle from which he was ultimately thrown.

How is it, Mycroft wondered, that no world crisis, no emergency of global importance could make him as tired as worrying about his brother? Would Sherlock even appreciate someday, all that Mycroft had done and the favors he had banked and the power he had risen to, all in order to keep an eye on one anti-social, possibly sociopathic family member (he sincerely doubted it). He would wonder if it were all worth it, if that meant anything: worth is measured in the final result, not the tribulations.

A sound from Sherlock in the second week startled Mycroft so badly he actually flinched. The chair (of torture) reinforced the inadvisability of the motion and his laptop clattered to the tile floor.

“My…?” It was weak, worked past a throat raw from intubation in surgery ( ~~and doubtless screams during the beating~~ ) and disuse.

Mycroft was at his side without registering the movement of his own body, holding the ice chips the personnel said would be the best source of moisture for his brother.

“Hush, don’t speak. You’ve been badly hurt, you must allow yourself to heal. Give yourself a little time, at least, Sherlock,” He knew telling Sherlock to be still ( ~~even half dead~~ NO! None of those thoughts would be allowed!), even with his injuries, was as useless as telling him not to think. He went pale as Sherlock did as he was told.

“Would you like some ice chips,” He asked (useless, you are useless, all your power and you can only tell him to shush and suck on ice?)

Sherlock still didn’t open his eyes but he nodded, which was a good sign (quick, correct response to simple question, check). Mycroft held chips to Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock parted his lips just enough to allow the ice to melt and run down his throat (did lips count as fine motor control?).

“En’f,” Sherlock turned his head just a fraction, just enough to signal he was done. Mycroft did and didn’t want him to open his eyes and speak well enough to hold a conversation. “W’ hap’n?”

“Sherlock, you mustn’t speak. You need to heal.” Mycroft’s hand hovered about his brother’s curls, but did not touch (if Sherlock was aware then he wouldn’t welcome the touch).

“Sherlock worked his tongue and jaw, “What happen’?”

“If you stop trying to talk and cease your agitation, I will read the case file to you. Would that be acceptable?” If he couldn’t fight Sherlock, he would acquiesce, on his own terms.

Sherlock nodded. The breath straining through his nose and the difficulty swallowing betrayed a sense of nausea. That was normal, and probably the reason he’d not opened his eyes. Mycroft settled back into the chair, replaced the laptop on his lap, and read out the horrendous details of his brother’s attack (as if it were just another case file Sherlock had come to love so much). Dry, emotionless detail was the key (perhaps they could both achieve a working sense of disconnect long enough to find out who did this and ~~rip them limb from limb, string their eyeballs and entrails from the winter branches outside, burn them from the inside out, make it as painful as possible,~~ punish them).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft worries about Sherlock but, short of locking him away, can't do much to save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is subject to editing.

When next Mycroft tracked him down, it was to an unnamed warehouse gym. Sherlock wore flashy short pants, comfortable athletic shoes, his hands taped but otherwise vulnerable. There were bruises on his ribs, his face, his shoulders in varying stages of healing. His pale skin was a terrible mosaic, everywhere, in a study of pain.

“Why?” He stood at the corner and murmured in Sherlock’s ear, so close the sweat dripping off Sherlock’s hair brushed by Mycroft’s nose.

He was reminded of times when his brother was still small enough to be held and protected from the world, from himself. Times when Mycroft had brushed his nose through those soft curls to smell the scent of healthy little boy. Sherlock still didn’t smell healthy, but it was closer with these bruises and tape than it had been with the glitter and feathers.

“Haven't you ever needed pain, Mycroft?”

“Of course not,” Mycroft replied (he lied, Sherlock knew he lied).

“The drugs focused me but gave me no center, no stable base from which to carry on with my deductions. Pain focuses me without removing my center. I need the focus, and I've found pain works,” Sherlock sighed, “It helps make me stronger and I'm no longer taking illegals, Mycroft, what more do you want?”

“I want you not to destroy yourself, brother,” Mycroft still barely spoke louder than a whisper, willing Sherlock to focus on _him_.

“I'm not a child, _brother_ , and I don't need you to mother me. Is controlling the western half not enough anymore? Isn't it about time you got married and concerned yourself with your own actual offspring?” Sherlock sneered, but his eyes refused to express any venom.

“Don't be absurd. No one with high enough clearance would have me,” Mycroft replied (He didn't dare involve himself with anyone without the proper clearance.)

After a few moments of measured silence, Mycroft offered Sherlock a drink from the bottle by the corner ropes. The bell sounded and Sherlock popped up to fight once more. Mycroft didn't stay to watch.


End file.
